Cave dive

Every sixteen metres of depth is equivalent to one alcoholic drink.
– Mauro Bertolini, The Diver’s Handbook

He remembers being six, lying on his back beneath a kitchen chair, gazing up at his father’s unmapped nostrils, his mother’s skirt riffling past like a spotted eagle ray. Underneath the dining table, he found pencil marks: a quarter-circle and two words underscored. Possible Extension. Back then, it was a code or perhaps the solution to a code. On the cave bed, it takes a blue whale’s long blink to fathom what one plus one turns in to. The sky peers down from blue-green slots like the lamp fittings of his youth. His slow mind thinks time is just another surface, he can pass through the swirling halocline that keeps us from our pasts: the fresh and the preserved. Back in his father’s study, pouring a bag of marbles across the rug. In the glow from the tentacled lampshade, he holds up his Bosser, sees himself swimming in its spiral reef. Letting drift his aqualung, he is either young or drunk. From his lips he scatters balls of glass.